


Sharp Dressed Man

by tsiviaravina



Series: Near Zero Contact [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Crying, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feels, Hair-pulling, Hand Around Neck, Hand Feeding, Introspection, Kink Negotiation, Massage, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, NO BREATH PLAY!!!, Neck Kissing, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Orders, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Punishment, Safer Sex, Safewords, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Frustration, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spanking, Subspace, Suit Porn, Swearing, The Pink Dress, Tiger Balm, Vaginal Fingering, Warming Lubricant, hand covering mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsiviaravina/pseuds/tsiviaravina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I blame gargoylestogether for requesting Ward in a suit, which made me think of “Sharp Dressed Man”, by ZZ Top, which dovetailed nicely for this piece, the second story in the series “Near Zero Contact”. This, the second story (the first story is “Reasonable and Firm”) begins near the end of AoS S1E4: “Eye Spy”. Then I started writing. Then four days later I looked at the word count and realized I had written A LOT of Skye/Ward BDSM Smut. Like 16,000+ WORDS/30+ PAGES of Skye/Ward BDSM Smut. Basically, Skye and Ward Trying To Figure Things Out between the two of them, and Not Always Doing A Very Good Job Of It (May says at one point in the story, “Who’s collaring whom again?”), with Ward Being Smug, Resulting In A Punishment, Bratty Behavior, Continuation Of Said Punishment, Spanking, Phenomenal Sex, Angst, Feels, A LOT of Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Old Fashioned Smut as well as BDSM Smut, Ward In Various Suits, and Ward Being Extremely Possessive. And yes, this is more than slightly AU. (If you have read and understood this entire Summary, I salute you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp Dressed Man

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. Have not gotten this much great feedback in…just…WOW!!! Thank you all for the positive, encouraging, interesting comments (Step One in Care and Feeding of the Muse). I also got a request for Grant Ward in a suit, which got my gears clicking for this next piece, so many thanks go to gargoylestogether for the prompt, which turned into…ummm…this! I hope I did it justice. If you have any requests/prompts/etc., I will be happy to oblige as much as I can. However, I am probably the only fanfic author in the Nine Realms without a Tumblr account (yet), so simply send them through the “Comments” section. Without further ado, many, many more Smutty somewhat AU BDSM Skye/Ward Shenanigans. With Ward in various suits. And Skye in the pink dress. Yup. *That* one. 
> 
> One final note: I don’t have a beta reader, so all inaccuracies and grammatical/spelling errors are mine.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters; I just play in the AoS sandbox from time to time. Trying to sue me would be a hilarious, futile effort for all those involved.

_“Silk suit, black tie,_

_I don’t need a reason why…_

_And cuff links, stick pin,_

_When I step out I’m gonna do you in…_

_They come runnin’ just as fast as they can_

_‘Cause every girl crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”_

_-“Sharp Dressed Man” by ZZ Top_

_(Lyrics manipulated to serve my purposes…)_

 

It always _starts_ innocently enough.

Well, maybe “innocent” is the wrong word to use, some part of Skye’s sex-addled brain giggles. Skye tells it in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up.

Today, it starts at the Todorov Building in Belarus.

One minute he’s just being her adorkably uptight, awkward S.O., trying to bond with a security guard with a story about what she thinks is—wait—Ukrainian _girls, plural?_ (If he _ever_ tries to pull something like that…)

Then there’s gunfire, she’s pulling the car at top speed around to the back of the building, and he’s transformed into Agent Grant Ward, shooting out the goddamned window to use as a goddamned exit strategy and she manages to stop just in time to avoid hitting him and he’s getting into the car like _nothing happened._

And he does it all in a _suit_.

“Let’s go,” he says, adjusting his tie.

_Bastard_. Now she needs to change her panties.

She peels out of the parking lot, wishing she could leave the sexual frustration behind.

***

He’s doing his best not to grin.

The tight set of her jaw, her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the flush creeping across her cheeks and down her neck where he knows it will spread across her chest…He keeps looking forward, but makes the mistake of allowing himself a small, satisfied smile knowing that she’s been driven this close to the edge just by watching him do his job—

—and his whole body spasms as he feels a feather-light touch behind his left ear. “ _Skye, Goddamnit!_ What the _hell?!?”_

She can’t stop her lips from twitching. “Ukrainian _girls_ , Ward? _Plural?_ Really?”

“What are you _talking_ about—wait, _how_ did you _understand_ — _never mind!_ ” Even as her S.O. and her Dom, Skye has officially made sending him into fits of exasperation an art form. He makes the mistake of turning to look out the window at the bleak countryside and—

“ _Jesus God_ , will you cut it out? I almost hit my head on the ceiling!” _Christ_ , he’s glad that comms are down.

“It’s not my fault you’re so tall. Or so ticklish…” She’s barely holding back a laugh as she keeps her eyes on the road and reaches out again with her right hand. “Or that the best you could come up with after last night—”

_(—her ass stinging from being “disciplined” for not knowing the difference between the safety release and the magazine release on the regulation pistol, him driving himself down her throat while she’s on her knees, making these completely pornographic noises as her “apology” for driving him bonkers during weapons training—)_

“—was some half-assed comment about two random Ukrainian chicks?” She breaks into giggles as he ducks away from her hand and…

Oh, shit. A hand snaps around her right wrist in a tight grip, but there are also fingers, long and callused and warm and _knowing_ and they’re teasing her neck in all the right places and Ward is telling her— _ordering_ her in that voice that is steel wrapped in velvet to pull off on to a secondary road and into a convenient stand of trees and brush.

Now there’s a hand over her mouth, firm, but never smothering. She shivers once and feels herself beginning to slip.

“You will keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. You will get out of the car. You will come around to my side. You will open the door and once you are settled properly on my lap, you will close the door. Nod once if you understand.” She nods once, suddenly only wanting to please him.

“Good girl,” he whispers into her ear, sucking and nipping at the lobe until she whimpers. He lets her go. “Now move.”

She does as he orders and finds herself straddling his lap and pulling the door closed behind her. And oh God, one of his hands is tangled in her hair while the other is at her neck and he’s kissing her, demanding everything and conceding nothing.

He yanks her mouth from his and she makes this wonderful little sound of need in the back of her throat. Her pupils are blown wide, her eyes slightly glassy, and she’s already panting and God, does he just want to strip her down and fuck her, right here, right now, especially when her scent is filling up the car.

But she hasn’t earned that yet.

“You’ve been nothing but a brat since I got in this car. Agreed?”

She’s still high enough to flush with embarrassment. “Yes, sir,” she answers promptly.

“I think you’ve earned yourself a punishment. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers in reluctant agreement.

He’s horny as hell, but he’ll do right by Skye and be her Dom and do this.

Plus, this will _guarantee_ a night of mind-blowing sex, which is what he loves after the adrenaline rush of completing a mission.

“Begin,” he tells her firmly.

When she bites her bottom lip and her eyes begin to close, she hears a soft “Uh-uh,” and feels a sharp slap on her inner thigh that goes straight to her clit. Her eyes fly open.

“Eyes on me,” he orders.

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers, and swallows hard, flushing deeper. God, she is so adorable like this, but he holds himself back.

“Now, again. Begin.”

He keeps his eyes fastened on hers, knowing—and feeling—what she’s doing.

She’s trembling as she’s fumbling to gently stroke herself over her panties. It’s a punishment, and this is just the _first_ part, so she has to stroke herself _over_ her panties. They’re more wet now than damp, and the satin is slick enough that it feels like there’s _almost_ nothing there as she uses one hand to stretch the material taut over herself and her other hand to flutter the tips of her fingers from her clit, which is now a hard, throbbing pebble, to her labia, carefully tracing every dip and rise around her entrance, deliberately teasing herself, before going back to do it all over again and again and again…

It’s hard—this first part that Ward’s surprisingly devious mind came up with is _so_ hard—because her thighs are trembling, her panties are soaked through, and she’s ready to promise him almost _anything_ if he’ll just let her touch her own skin, rub the heel of her hand over her clit while plunging three fingers inside herself, where she was already drenched and aching and needy. She’s ready to promise him anything _he_ wants if _he’ll_ do it instead, _and_ let her come. Having to keep her eyes locked on his on top of everything else seems like an almost insurmountable task, but she’s falling deeper, which makes it easier to follow his order.

She doesn’t even notice that tears are streaming down her face until he removes a handkerchief out of an inner pocket of his suit and, taking her chin in one hand, dabs at her face tenderly with the other.

When he’s gentle with her like this, it can almost break her heart.

“Stop,” he whispers, their eyes locked, electricity crackling between them. She gently pulls her hand away from herself and holds it out, palm up, in front of her.

He takes her hand, and for what seems like the millionth time since he devised this specific punishment for her, he wonders if this is the time when _he’s_ going to break, when _he’s_ going to just do what they both want and use his hands on her to make her come over and over and over again, straddling his lap, with one hand deep inside her, the other tangled in her hair, and his lips and teeth and tongue working on the sensitive skin of her throat.

Without looking away from her, he brings her hand up and his nostrils flare as he smells _her._ Not her shampoo, not her body wash, not her perfume. Just… _Skye._

Then, with his eyes still locked on hers, beginning with her thumb, he sucks and licks each of her fingers clean.

When he’s done, he tangles a hand in the roots of her hair and kisses her firmly, letting her chase the faint taste of herself on his lips and tongue.

She waits until he eases his hand out of her hair to curl up tightly in his lap, nuzzling her cheek against the lapel of his suit jacket. Damn suits. She tries to make sure she doesn’t crease his pants, but he doesn’t seem to care since he’s pulling her tightly to him, letting out an enormous sigh. She sniffles and wipes at her eyes and nose with the handkerchief she now realizes she’s holding.

After a long moment, he strokes her hair. “We’re not done here,” he says, letting her know by saying “we” that the punishment for her bratty behavior is just as punishing for him as it is for her. She squeezes her eyes shut.

“I know, sir. I’m _so_ sorry, sir.”

“I know you are. But I’m responsible for training you, and you _need_ to remember that your behavior, good or bad, will reflect back on _me_ when you’re in the field.” She wishes he would sound angry at her instead of disappointed in her when he explains his reasoning behind a punishment. And he’s still cuddling her and stroking her hair which makes her feel worse instead of better as he gives her time to stop shaking and for the raw sexual need to lessen before he drops a kiss on her forehead.

“Let’s get out and clean ourselves up a bit and let the car air out some, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” she answers automatically, still just below the surface in sub space.

He quickly kisses her once on each cheek and on the tip of her nose, which always makes her laugh and shake her head, bringing her back up. It’s the signal they rely on to bring her back when they don’t have time for her to rise slowly and naturally, at her own pace, out of sub space.

They stand by the side of the road, rearranging themselves into some semblance of order. He lets her go through her small ritual of helping him resettle the fall of his jacket over his shoulders, smoothing the lapels, and straightening his shirt collar and tie. This is one of the little things she has made a habit of doing for him now, little things he would never admit to _anyone_ that he likes, wondering again if this isn’t more for him than for her.

She exhales shakily and holds out the keys to the car. “You’ll need to drive home,” she says quietly.

Not “the Bus”. “Home”.

He smiles when he gets in and starts the car. She starts out quiet and pensive, but soon she opens the window, fools with the radio, and tries (and fails) to get him to teach her how to curse in Russian. He’s thoroughly annoyed with her again by the time they get back to the Bus, and she’s almost literally bouncing out of the car. Then she’s giggling over _something_ with Simmons, Fitz takes the glasses back from her, shoots what he probably believes is a furtive look at Ward, and whispers _something_ in Skye’s ear, and before he realizes it, she’s whistling and swinging her hips as _she_ watches _him_ watch _her_ walk upstairs.

He grins and shakes his head.

Brat.

But she’s _his_ brat.

And she still has to finish her punishment before tonight’s mind-blowing sex.

His grin widens as he takes the stairs two at a time.

***

She makes sure to use up the last of the hot water when she showers (even Coulson pokes his head out of his office when Ward bellows _“Goddamnit, Skye!”_ from the shower cubicle), knowing that will only add to her punishment, but wanting him mad, not maudlin, for tonight. She knows he’s expecting to finish her punishment, then have (hopefully, hours of) mind-blowing, post-mission sex and one cannot have hours of mind-blowing, post-mission sex if one is wallowing in misplaced guilt.

She hacks into his bunk and deliberately starts opening his drawers and going through the small closet. She’s been having some fantasies concerning Ward and his suits, and she needs to know what she has to work with. She _might_ have let her mind wander because she’s imagining Ward in some suits that she’s never seen him wear (including a tux— _Jesus God_ was she going to make him wear that one night for her) which _might_ have led to her getting caught snooping by a dripping wet, freezing, mightily pissed-off Ward.

“Wanna throw another bag over my head?” she offers by way of a greeting.

Suddenly, he grins at her, his expression a little more…predatory. A little bit…feral. He deliberately clicks the lock home behind him and does something he has never done before.

He simply reaches out and grabs her.

God, he feels fucking fantastic against her—solid, slick, and so warm he’s almost hot under her hands. She deliberately yanks the towel from around his waist, closing her eyes and almost purring when she feels his cock hot against her belly. She wraps a hand around his dick, pushing and pulling and twisting just like he’s taught her while she stands on tiptoe to suck and lick the water from his neck and shoulders.

Oddly, his grip on her body tightens, which is just fine with her. Some part of her says she might want to be alarmed at this, but, again, she tells it to shut the fuck up. He doesn’t touch a single sub trigger spot. He doesn’t have to. He just hisses down at her, “If you stop, I will _make_ FitzSimmons create something I can give you that will inhibit you from coming for at _least_ a week. Understood?”

“Loud and clear, sir,” she whispers back, dropping to her knees, and wanting nothing more than to give him the best blow job of his life.

He stands there, head thrown back, eyes closed, his towel a damp puddle of fabric tossed in a corner. Without stopping, she glances up at him and groans softly around him. Smooth skin over muscle, sinew, and bone with the cock to match and right now, he is _hers,_ no matter what possessive posturing he wants to do. So she closes her eyes and indulges herself, running her hands over the skin of his hips and grabbing his ass before she does something monumentally stupid, like shove a hand between her legs where, duh, she is _completely_ ready for anything yet _again_ , which would just add to the agony tonight—before they get to the post-mission “Holy-shit-I/you/me/we-could-have-died” adrenaline-fueled sex, of course.

“Skye… _Skye…Christ…”_ is all he manages to whisper out in warning when suddenly both of his hands are tangled in her hair and he’s coming—coming fast and hard from her hands and lips and tongue and she’s just—God, she’s just fucking being _amazing_ , sealing her lips around him, taking him in deeper, swallowing _everything_ streaming out of him. She doesn’t back away until she’s sure he’s finished, carefully nursing the last drops out of him.

He closes his eyes and lets his head drop forward. He hears a soft chuckle and feels small, sure hands guide his hips until he falls onto the mattress. He feels the sheet and blanket being pulled up and tucked around him. This time, he can smell her perfume, her shampoo, and her body wash, and he reaches up to pull her down beside him, wanting this to last just a little (okay, a lot) longer.

“Stay?” he says softly, surprising himself when the word comes out as a request and not a command. But he realizes, right now, he wants _this_ Skye as well—not the rookie, not the submissive. He’s just the man who wants the woman who wants him. He wants everything she’s willing to give him and that fact scares the shit out of him. He’s not supposed to _want_ this; he’s not supposed to want this _much_ for himself…

Wordlessly, she slips out of her clothes, letting them fall where they will, and gets in beside him, positioning herself so he can rest his head against her breasts. She runs one hand through his hair and the other hand over his shoulder and down his back while his arms wrap around her and pull her close. “I’ll always stay,” she whispers to him. He sighs from somewhere deep inside and she can feel his broad, honed, weapon of a body finally relax against her and damn, are her eyes leaky today. His lips ghost over her skin; she presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep, Grant,” Skye tells him.

So he does.

***

She wakes a couple of hours later when she starts feeling a familiar sensation of warmth. She inhales through her nose and smiles. She smells the Tiger Balm. She’s apparently getting some kind of reprieve for the moment—she can feel Ward’s hands firmly massaging her neck and moving downwards. She smiles, sighs, and hears him chuckle.

“Super Spy is spoiling me. What did I do to earn this?” she asks in a sleepy murmur, keeping her eyes closed.

“You spoiled me. I thought I would return the favor,” he replies, moving for a moment to lick and kiss the dimples at the base of her spine, bracketing her hips with his hands. She lets out the lightest of moans, trying to arch herself further into those kisses and failing. But he presses two firm kisses into the soft skin and goes back to massaging the liniment into her shoulders and arms. When he reaches her hands, she lets out a whimper, involuntarily pressing her hips deeper into the mattress.

That earns her a stinging smack on the ass and an amused chuckle. “I may be spoiling you, but don’t think I’ve forgotten the rest of your punishment. You should be feeling it…any minute now,” he murmurs in her ear, his breath and his words sending shivers down her spine. And then she feels it. First, a light tingle on the surface of the skin between her legs, then an increasing level of tantalizing warmth from her clit to her folds to— _Christ_ in a sidecar—how the _hell_ did he get the warming lubricant that deep _into_ her without _waking_ her?!?

She muffles her moan of desire and frustration in the mattress underneath her and clenches her inner walls to try and find some relief, which only sends her hips rocketing into the mattress and that just earns her two more slaps on the ass and why did she _ever_ think it would be a good idea to introduce Grant Ward to the _Good Vibrations_ website?

He chuckles again as she looks at him with all the spitting fury of a wet kitten. She’s caught and she knows it and she _hates_ it. He keeps massaging the Tiger Balm into her hands while the warming lubricant he so carefully applied keeps torturing her. He doesn’t look at her as he says softly, casually, “I used a natural soft bristle paintbrush to apply the lubricant. Apparently, it tickled a bit, because you giggled in your sleep. It was kind of cute, actually.”

Oh, she _hates_ him when he’s smug.

He’s straddling her now, his weight and his slow, deliberate movements causing feather-light friction as her bare, aching flesh rubs against the mattress.

“I _hate_ you!” is her clever opening volley for the early portion of the evening.

“I know,” he replies in the soothing tone you would use to speak to a toddler having a temper tantrum. He lays her right hand down gently and begins working his way down her back and her spine with soft, rhythmic motions.

She moans into the mattress again. Shit, shit, _shit!_ How the hell is she supposed to endure this? “You _bastard_ , I— _Ow!”_ she hisses, as her comment earns her another slap.

“My parents were legally married when I was conceived and born, and though we no longer communicate at all, I can show you their names on my birth certificate. I know a copy is in my file. Therefore, I am _technically_ not a bastard. However, if you call me a ‘son-of-a-bitch’, considering my mother’s temperament, I _might_ have to concede the point.” He begins to ease himself back and forth—he can tell she’s going to fight this part of her punishment every inch of the way. She’s squirming underneath him, trying to get _some_ kind of relief, trying to get away, and he can’t have _that_.

He sits down on the mattress and easily swings her over his lap. Thank God he pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and exercise pants before starting the massage because he does _not_ need warming lubricant all over himself as well, or the two of them might not end up leaving this bunk for a solid _week_. He positions her, pins her with one hand, and prepares to lay into her with the other.

“You will watch your mouth—”

SMACK!

“—and your tone with me.”

SMACK!

“You will address me properly—”

SMACK!

“—and if this punishment becomes too much for you,—”

SMACK!

“—you will use the words ‘yellow’—”

SMACK!

“—‘red’—”

SMACK!

“—or you will _use your safeword!”_

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Do I make myself clear?”

SMACK!

Tears are streaming down her face from the spanking, from her sensitized flesh rubbing against Ward’s thigh, and from sheer humiliation. She’s panting and sweating and writhing against him, something inside her refusing to let go, refusing to let her fall. He simply holds her in place with one hand while continuing to administer smacks to her ass with the other.

SMACK!

Finally, he simply says in _that_ tone of voice, steel wrapped in velvet, right into her ear, “I said, Skye, do-I-make-myself-clear?”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

One smack for each word he had to repeat.

“Yes, sir, I understand!” she manages to finally get out in a hoarse whisper as he raises his hand at her slight hesitation, feeling completely worthless and weak and pathetic, but too stubborn and angry to call out “red” or safeword out of the scene. “ _Please_ , sir! I’m sorry for my behavior, sir!” she whimpers softly.

Then she buries her face in the mattress to muffle the sudden flood of tears that erupts from somewhere deep within her. And between the pain and the misery and the raw desire, something else from that same place deep within her loosens and, _thank God_ , she finally starts to fall.

Now Ward is gently rubbing her back, telling her impossible things—things that aren’t true; that she’s fierce and brave and strong and smart and that he’s proud of her. She can’t bring herself to thank him for telling her things that aren’t true, so she simply shakes her head at each moment of praise and continues to cry, choking and gasping for breath.

Then Ward is sweeping her up, wrapping her tightly in his blanket, cradling her like a baby. She curls up in his lap, wanting to be as small as possible, wanting him to wrap his arms around her and keep her safe. He presses her head to his chest so she can hear his heart beat. As she listens to it, she falls even farther, her wild sobbing starting to calm.

He hands her tissues and orders gently, “Blow your nose and wipe your eyes.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, and does as she’s told. He even holds up the wastepaper basket so she can throw away the tissues when her face is finally clean. He murmurs to her; soft, sweet words that soothe her mind if not her body. She lets herself fall even farther down when he places her gently on the mattress, tucking the pillow under her head. She closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see him leave.

She doesn’t know how long he’s been gone because she’s been drifting, high on the endorphins and other biochemical reactions in her brain that Jemma can probably explain to her if Skye ever gets up the nerve to ask. She opens her eyes when he comes back into the room, and watches as he sets down a tray that’s holding washcloths, a few bottles of water, a bowl of grapes, and a plate of small cubes of cheese and crackers.

He picks her up again, and hands her a warm, wet washcloth. “Wash your face,” he says softly, and she scrubs at her face obediently with the cloth. When she’s finished, he hands her another washcloth and says, “Wash your hands.” She wipes her hands clean and gives him the cloth.

He gently urges her to drink a full bottle of water, which makes her feel better with the taste of the tears in her throat washed away.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispers softly from way down deep in her sub space. She doesn’t exactly remember _why_ she’s being punished, but if her Dom needs to punish her, she needs to apologize to him. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I’m sorry for _everything_.”

He chuckles. “That’s a lot to be sorry for, Skye. But I accept your apology. Your punishment is over, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, sighing in relief, and then his hand is in her hair and he’s kissing her so sweetly, just barely brushing their lips together. He feeds her by hand and she lets him, watching him, her eyes never leaving his face as he carefully selects each grape, each cracker, each piece of cheese that he softly presses to her lips. She eats everything he offers her and drinks from another bottle of water.

“Better?” he asks when there’s nothing left on the tray but crumbs. She nods wordlessly, exhausted from fighting him earlier. She’s drifting up, rising slowly. She can almost forget the constant tingling warmth between her legs.

But Ward hasn’t, and he stands her up on shaky legs so he can remove the blanket he has wrapped around her, and gently eases her back onto the mattress. Her eyes flutter closed but when he strokes her inner thigh, she opens her legs for him without a word of protest. He slips her legs over his shoulders, and gently rubs the flat of his tongue against her clit.

She inhales sharply at the welcome sensation of his mouth against her. She fists her hands in the sheets, arching her back so she can press herself into him, and he doesn’t disappoint her. He grabs her hips to yank her closer, to press his face in between her legs, suddenly sucking her clit into his mouth, loving the taste of her on his tongue.

She’s biting her lip to keep from making too much noise but still has to slap a hand over her mouth when she finally, finally comes, her whole body shaking and her legs locked tight around his head. She’s pleading with him in whispers not to stop, dear God, _please_ don’t stop, and he doesn’t and she comes twice more, one hand covering her mouth to muffle her cries and the other somehow tangled in his hair.

Then he’s trying to stand up, tripping over his own feet as he gets rid of his remaining clothing. He turns to grab a condom from the nightstand, but when he turns back to her, he feels like his head is going to explode because she’s…she’s…

…doing That.

Right. In. Front. Of. Him.

God help him.

He has had a…good number…of beautiful women all too eager to put on a sexual show for him in the past, but those women weren’t _Skye_. And he has forgotten that, in sex, as in everything else, Skye is a force of nature.

What she is doing right now is not being done to arouse him.

In fact, he’s not sure if it has anything to _do_ with him, and for some reason, that makes all the blood in his brain go straight to his cock.

She’s somehow become…

_…Lust._

_…Desire._

_…Need._

_…Want._

Her legs are spread wide and her head is thrown back and one hand is teasing and flicking and rubbing her clit and she has three fingers of her other hand thrusting in and out of herself, and he knows from _very_ personal experience that she’s doing what she’s been wanting to do since her “punishment” began, and he can see her fingers shining with wetness even in the dim light of the bunk.

He drops the condom from nerveless fingers and can only kneel in front of her as if in supplication at some ancient Pagan fertility rite with Skye panting, her hips rising and falling under the pleasure of her own hands, her nipples hard, tight peaks, and her hair tumbling down the side of the mattress as her head rocks back and forth until she finally opens her eyes and looks up at him, completely unashamed.

_“This…”_ she pants, _“…this…_ is what I _used_ to look like…almost _every_ night…on this _damned_ plane...because of _you!”_ She closes her eyes again for a moment, biting her lower lip and using her fingers to spread more of her own wetness over her clit, over all that smooth, pink skin, just so she can rub the heel of her hand against herself, her hands moving faster, her fingers flying, and her eyes open again and he hears her pant, _“Forget_ …the damned _condom_ …and _get_ the hell… _up_ here…and _mark me_ …like you’ve been… _wanting_ to!”

And then, with a bit of direction on Skye’s part, he’s kneeling in the space between her spread legs, his cock hard and hot in his hand, and she takes her hand out from inside herself, dragging her hand from the base of his cock to the tip of it, lubricating him with her own moisture. He bites back a groan and leans over her, bracing himself with his left hand while his right hand works away at his own cock, pulling, tugging, stroking, as he watches her and learns what the word “worship” _really_ means.

“So close, Grant…I’m so _fucking_ close,” she pants, and hearing her use his first name, which she almost never does (and not like this before, _never_ like this before), makes his cock jump in his hand, which he just moves faster now, faster so he can come, come hard, and mark her like he’s wanted to since that first day they got thrown together in the Cage on the Bus.

And he’s so close to her that her scent fills his nostrils—fills _him_ —and before he can stop himself he’s sinking his teeth into the flesh between her neck and shoulder and then he manages to let go of her right before he comes all over her breasts and belly, feeling her body shudder again and again beneath his.

Then she’s nuzzling him and kissing him and he lays on his side, exhausted and fascinated, watching her rub his come into her skin, from her neck down to her breasts and over her belly and upper thighs. She trails her fingers over the bite mark, but just smiles and doesn’t say anything. He lets her pull him close so his nose is buried in her neck while his arm and leg are tossed over her. He simply closes his eyes and breathes in his scent mingled with hers, feeling her fingers trace the features of his face and her hand run through his hair.

As he comes back to himself, he moves even closer so he can lick a tiny path up the side of her neck to taste himself on her skin.  She muffles a moan and he feels her whole body shudder against him again. He chuckles.

“So… _almost_ every night, huh?”

Her eyes twinkle when she looks at him. “And some mornings. Why the hell do you think I was late to training so often? Like I _wanted_ extra push-ups?”

He pulls her tight against him so he can muffle his laughter in between her breasts before rolling her underneath him and kissing her cross-eyed before snatching another condom out of the drawer.

They haven’t completed the post-mission sex part of the mission, after all.

***

The next morning, it’s still dark out when his phone goes off.

Skye, who is actually better at coping with mornings than he is, and who is somehow still on her post-multi-orgasmic “Let’s Go Build A Bridge” endorphin high, rolls over, silences the phone, looks at it, then slips out of bed, leaving Ward to blink sleepily at her as she starts going through his closet.

“Skye, what the _hell!?!”_ He means for it to be a harsh whisper, but it comes out as more of a puppyish whine at the sudden loss of her curves and her warmth and the scent of her skin.

“Shush, Super Spy. You have a mission.” He realizes that she’s going through the shirts in his closet at an alarmingly rapid pace. “No, no, no,” she’s muttering to herself. “No, no, maybe—no, no, no—ha! _Mine!”_ she sings out softly and he realizes that she's taking one of his shirts off its hanger and is pulling it on. “Oops—almost forgot…” she whispers, grabbing his cologne and spraying some on the collar and cuffs. She sits down on the edge of the bed and starts to button it up.

Ward grabs her around the waist. “Do _not_ make me _sit_ on you,” he grumbles as she squirms against him. “Why are you wearing _my_ shirt and _my_ cologne?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes, shoving his phone at him. “I just _told_ you—you have a _mission_. Not many details, but it looks like you’ll be gone a couple of days, and you’re _not_ going on an _overnight mission_ without _me_ having something of yours _I_ can wear at night that smells like _you.”_

“Why _that_ shirt?” he demands quietly.

Oddly enough, she blushes and looks down. “Because it’s the one you wore the…day we met,” she says softly.

He suddenly pulls her down, kisses her hard, then reluctantly pulls away and looks at his phone. “They want me in Paris… _again_ …but this time it’s just reconnaissance. Thirty-six hours, tops.” He kisses both her cheeks and her nose, wanting to hear her laughter more than anything else. She swats the top of his head gently and wrinkles her nose at him.

“Okay, but you _have_ to let me go because A.C. will be wondering what the _hell_ you’re doing in a minute and the answer to that question, funny as it would be, should _not_ be ‘Skye’. Now let me get back to my own bunk!” she lets out in a whispered rush.

He mutters something unintelligible and gives her another heated kiss. “Want anything special from Paris?” he teases as he nuzzles her neck.

“My collar!” she whispers sharply at him before kissing him one last time and breaking his grip on her.

Then she’s gone and he can hear her slipping back into her own bunk.

He hasn’t even left yet and suddenly he’s lonely.

He sighs and gets up and goes to shower. At least he has hot water this morning.

But when he gets back to his bunk, the bed is made perfectly, and an envelope is resting against his pillow. Nothing written on it—not even his last name. Inside, however, is a handkerchief-sized piece of antique-looking, lace trimmed cloth, and he knows without even bringing it to his nose that it will smell like Skye’s perfume. He smiles to himself and tucks the cloth back in its envelope, putting it down next to his phone, and starts to dress.

***

She tries. She tries _hard_.

She trains, she hacks, she follows leads on other cases, she trains some more, she even watches a movie with Simmons and beats Fitz soundly at poker. _Twice._

But she didn’t know it would be _this hard_ to suddenly have him _gone_ , even if it is just for one night.

And suddenly, it’s past time for her to get to bed so she can train at her regular time in the morning (Ward will figure out something else as inventive as the warming lubricant painted inside her if she breaks her training schedule). She’s already taken her last shower of the day and had dinner. She washes up, brushes her teeth and her hair, and locks the door to her bunk behind her. She puts on Ward’s shirt and holds one of the cuffs to her nose while she hugs her pillow to herself with the other.

She’s nervous and edgy and—just say it—worried about _him_. Worried about him being _alone,_ worried that he’s _not_ alone, and that’s almost as bad as the Worst Worry, which she won’t let herself think about _at all_.

It’s just an op to gather necessary intel, which she _knows_ he’s crazy good at (best espionage skills since Romanoff and all that). He’s going to be _fine_. _Nothing_ is going to happen to him. He’ll come home tired and grumpy, but she’ll make sure he has a scalding hot shower if that’s what he wants and she’ll make him whatever he wants to eat from the slim pickings in the galley, and she’ll be quiet and obedient and good and not make him bellow _“Goddamnit, Skye!”_ every fifteen minutes as long as he comes back in one piece…

And _oh God_ , she’s crying and she can’t stop—she’s bawling into her pillow like a _baby_ because her S.O., her Dom, got sent on an _overnight mission_. She can’t stop being frightened—that he won’t come back, that he won’t _want_ to come back…

She’s one hell of a mess when she hears the quiet knock on the door to her bunk.

When she opens the door, using a wad of tissues in her hand to wipe at her face, somehow she’s not surprised to see Jemma. Jemma, who takes care of all of them in a million different ways, big and small. And then Jemma gently eases them both back into Skye’s bunk, and she puts down what she affectionately calls her “bag of tricks” so she can hold Skye while Skye finishes crying.

When her sobs taper off, Skye realizes that they’re lying on her bed, with Skye’s face pressed into a very damp patch on Jemma’s nightshirt. “I’m sorry,” Skye manages to hiccup softly.

“It’s all right, Skye,” Jemma says softly, rocking her gently, smoothing a hand down Skye’s back. “It’s all right to be scared when your Dom has to leave you, especially for the first time.”

Skye almost jerks away, but then Jemma’s hand is deep in her hair and she’s pulling gently but firmly and suddenly Skye’s muscles relax into Jemma’s embrace.

Jemma’s lips, softer and lighter than Ward’s, brush against Skye’s. Skye looks at Jemma with wide eyes and a thoroughly confused expression on her face. Jemma hugs Skye again, then moves to sit up.

“No! Please…I _can’t_ sleep and I’m _so_ scared…I—I just…Ward and I haven’t really talked about…” Skye’s panicked whisper trails off.

Jemma carefully disengages Skye’s death grip on her clothing. “I know. He’s your S.O. and your Dom, but you haven’t discussed whether you’re expected to be exclusive to him, even when you need the stability of being cared for when he’s not here.” Jemma runs her fingers through Skye’s tangled curls over and over, and somehow, Skye finds herself gently drifting down into sub space. Something in her that’s been drawn tight since Ward left the Bus relaxes and she find herself simply nodding in answer to Jemma’s accurate synopsis of the situation.

Then Jemma says, “Skye, I’m not leaving you alone like this, and it _is_ all right, I promise. Can you get up and bring me my bag?” Skye nods again, rising and handing the rose-patterned carpet bag to Jemma. She sits down at Jemma’s feet and tentatively leans against the other woman’s legs. Jemma smiles down at her and strokes Skye’s hair before opening the bag and pulling an envelope out of one of the inner pockets.

Jemma hands her the envelope, standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue, and says, “Coulson wouldn’t let Ward leave until he signed this.”

Skye goes deathly pale. “A.C.—I mean, _Coulson_ knows?”

Jemma places a reassuring hand on her head. “Pet, we’re six people living on an _airplane_ together. The two of you aren’t always as quiet as you think. And, to use an American idiom, this isn’t Coulson’s first rodeo, either. He’s handled relationships like yours before,” she says, her voice light and unconcerned, tapping Skye on the nose. “Now read that so you’ll start feeling better and so I can start taking proper care of you,” Jemma says softly, but with a familiar sound of command in her voice. Skye opens the envelope, takes out the contents, and begins to read.

The document, signed by Ward before he left, gives Coulson the “right” to make sure Skye is “properly cared for” in Ward’s absence. She scans the rest of it, noting that Jemma is named as Skye’s “secondary caregiver” when Ward is absent and/or Coulson determines that Skye is in need of her care. By the time she finishes reading the document a second time, she’s leaning her head against Jemma’s knee and stroking the smooth skin of her calf. Skye folds the paper back up and carefully tucks it back in its envelope and hands it back to Jemma.

Jemma puts the envelope back in her bag and takes out her tablet. She taps her fingers rapidly over the screen and suddenly, Skye’s bunk is filled with the soft sound of falling rain and the occasional chirping of a bird or a cricket. “Do you like that?” Jemma asks Skye, looking down at her. Skye nods and Jemma smiles at her, brushing Skye’s hair back from her face.

Jemma takes out a bottle of water and, surprisingly, a few pieces of chocolate. Skye obediently drinks the water and eats the chocolate, feeling herself drift farther down as she continues to sit at Jemma’s feet.

Jemma stands up slowly, taking Skye’s hands and helping her to her feet, not letting go until Skye stops swaying back and forth. “I’m going to care for you now, Skye,” Jemma tells her. “If _anything_ makes you uncomfortable, tell me, and I’ll stop. Do you understand?”

Skye nods again, glad that she doesn’t need to speak.

Skye watches in fascination as Jemma pulls off her nightshirt, folds it up, and tucks it in her bag. Her eyes take in Jemma’s curves that, up until now, have always been hidden by the layers of her clothing and her lab coat. Skye makes a tiny mewl of protest when Jemma begins to unbutton Ward’s shirt but Jemma stops and runs a hand over Skye’s hair again.

“I’m not going to take it away from you. Why don’t we lay it over your pillow once it’s off?” Jemma gently suggests and, after a moment, Skye nods and lets Jemma finish unbuttoning the shirt and watches as Jemma arranges it carefully over and around Skye’s pillow.

Jemma takes what looks like a small fan from her bag and turns it on. It’s soundless, but Skye begins to smell lavender. She closes her eyes and smiles at the sounds and scents permeating her bunk.

She doesn’t open her eyes as Jemma’s hands help her to lay face-down on the mattress. She sighs as she smells Ward’s cologne on the shirt under her cheek. Skye can feel Jemma straddling her hips and then Jemma’s small, deft, sure hands are massaging her with some kind of lotion that feels silky against her skin.

Skye doesn’t have to do anything but drift and listen to the sound of gently falling rain and breathe in Ward’s scent. Jemma even massages her hands and feet, then carefully wipes off any excess lotion with a soft towel.

Skye feels Jemma sliding into bed next to her, pulling the covers over the two of them. Skye turns on her side so she can nuzzle into Jemma’s neck, happy when Jemma pulls her close, Jemma’s softness and curves and warmth allowing her to become soft and pliant and yielding without having to fight to get there.

Jemma kisses her once more, long and warm and soft before reassuring Skye, “You don’t have to come up until you’re ready.” Skye sighs once, and nods, the sounds of the rain and the birds and the scents of lavender and Ward following her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

In the morning, Jemma’s gone, but there’s a note telling Skye to come find Jemma whenever Skye needs her, and that makes Skye smile.

She buries her face in her pillow before jumping up and straightening up her bunk. She carefully hangs Ward’s shirt up in her closet, telling herself that he’ll be back tonight, or even today. She wishes she could hope for a text, but even that would be leaving too much of a trail for the wrong people to follow.

So she gets up and pulls on her workout gear and grabs her headphones so she’ll at least have the company of a playlist while she does her morning routine of push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups. Hell, she’s even thinking of tacking on an extra ten minutes with the heavy bag when she’s trots downstairs and…

…he’s _here_. Rumpled and frustrated and disheveled, but _here_.

Her bag drops to the ground and he suddenly lifts his head and sees her.

All she wants to do is run to him, climb him like a damn tree, and kiss the exhausted, disbelieving expression off his face.

And amazingly, he’s walking towards her until he’s standing right in front of her, and drops his overnight bag to the ground with a _thud_.

Then his hand is in her hair and his other arm is pulling her flush against him and he’s kissing her and kissing her and kissing her and she’s on her tiptoes with her arms wrapped tight around his neck until he straightens up and then her toes aren’t even brushing the floor anymore, he’s got her wrapped up so tight in his arms.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls his mouth from hers and rests his forehead against hers.

“Skye…” he whispers, relief in the sound.

“Grant,” she lets herself say, because his voice shakes, just the tiniest bit, when he says her name. He’s still holding her tight against himself, and she buries her nose in his neck and then she knows why he’s back early and why he’s acting like he couldn’t give a crap if Fury himself wandered into the cargo bay right now and saw them wrapped up in each other like this.

She smells gunshot residue.

Either something went south on mission, or…

He gently lowers her to the ground, slipping to his knees, arms still wrapped around her, but with his face pressed tight against her belly.

She runs her hands through his hair and hugs whatever parts of him she can reach, listening to his ragged inhales and exhales. She’ll stand there as long as he needs her to. She doesn’t tell him everything’s all right, because it’s so obviously _not._ She doesn’t ask him what happened because it doesn’t take a FitzSimmons to put the clues together and realize that for whatever reason, he’s had to become not just Agent Grant Ward, but one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s deadliest weapons.

When he finally straightens up, she does what she now always does for him after a mission. She has him slip out of his suit jacket so she can straighten his collar and tie. She buttons up a button he missed while getting dressed. She tugs his pants until the knife-edge crease shows itself again. Then she snaps out his jacket and helps him into it, smoothing it carefully in place over his shoulders, and straightening and smoothing down the lapels. She stands on tiptoe and brushes her lips over a cheek dusted with stubble.

“You should be okay enough for debrief, at least,” she says softly, looking up at him, willing him to look her in the eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers back.

She puts a hand on his cheek and says, firmly, “Grant.”

His eyes finally find hers and there’s so much _hurt_ in them…

She bends down and grabs her water bottle. “Drink. All of it. Now,” she orders before she even knows what she’s doing.

He takes the water bottle and chugs it, not realizing until now how worn-out, how drained, how damned exhausted he really is. And because it’s Skye’s water bottle, it’s been in the fridge overnight and the water is wonderfully cold and leaves him feeling cleaner than he had felt a moment ago.

She takes the empty bottle from him and twines her hand with his, and grabs his bag.

“I can—” he starts to object.

“I know,” she says, stopping him. “Just—let me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“After you debrief, you’re going to shower, and then you’re going to come find me, and we’ll…figure things out from there.”

He looks over at her, a smile finally playing around his eyes as well as his mouth. “Getting pretty bossy, aren’t we?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I blame my S.O.,” she retorts, her own smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Go on and talk to Coulson,” she says with a nod of her head towards the staircase. “Do you want me to unpack for you?”

More weight seems lifted from his shoulders. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Not for this rookie,” she grins before turning towards the bunks. “Go on and get it over with,” she calls casually over her shoulder as if she hasn’t just put him back together into a human being.

_(“Pieces solving a puzzle…I think that’s…beautiful.”)_

He shakes his head, smiles, and walks upstairs to Coulson’s office.

***

Thankfully, the Bus takes off just before his debrief, so they’re away from…there…and on their way to somewhere else when he has to relive the last twenty-four hours. Coulson’s steady presence is oddly comforting, and by the end of his debrief, he’s been given just enough scotch to blunt the sharp edges of his memories and a quiet, but firm suggestion that he shower, change, and find something to eat.

He heads back to his bunk to find everything put away exactly where it should be. He strips down, putting the suit, shirt, and tie together so he’ll remember to get it all cleaned and pressed at their next stop, although he could happily never see that particular suit again. But a steaming hot shower and clean clothes do wonders for his mood…and a couple of appetites.

Skye’s working on her laptop on (yes, _on_ , not _at_ ) one of the tables scattered near the galley. He can tell that she went back and did her morning training routine because her hair is damp and her skin rosy from her shower, but she’s in street clothes.

FitzSimmons are down in the lab, Coulson’s in his office, and May’s not around, so he bends down to place a kiss behind her ear. “You do know,” he says conversationally, after watching her shiver and then glare at him before returning her gaze to the screen, “that when you do this, it drives Coulson straight up a wall.” He wanders casually over to the cupboards and starts to consider his food options, which are a bit limited at the moment.

“I hid a can of that soup you like behind the big can of refried beans, and Fitz lost at poker last night so the rest of the cold cuts are yours if you want them. Just remember tonight is ‘Spaghetti Night’ and Simmons made a couple of boxes of those brownies you like, so don’t overdo it right now,” she replies without looking up or ceasing her rapid-fire typing. Ward just stops what he’s doing and stares at her for a minute. Maybe two. Her head comes up and she’s looking back at him. “What? You _always_ come home hungry,” she states a little defensively.

That word again. “Home”.

He walks over to her slowly, watching _her_ watch _his_ hips for a change. He grins when she involuntarily licks her lips and shakes her head, trying to concentrate on her laptop again. He decides to use his height to his advantage for a change, gets behind her, and leans (well, looms) over her.

“Are you on deadline?” he asks softly, trailing the end of her braid over the nape of her neck. She shivers again, flushes, and exhales sharply through her nose as she deletes a duplicate line of code.

“No, but you need to eat _something_ —”

“Do I need to put my hand over your mouth?” he asks.

Her breathing is starting to pick up. “Ward—” is all she’s able to get out before he’s licking, kissing, biting, and sucking at her neck.

_“Goddamnit, Ward,”_ she whispers. “Someone will see… _oh, God_ …just let me… _oh, hell!”_ she sighs, her head falling back against his shoulder.

He chuckles and continues what he’s been doing for another few seconds, then gently closes her laptop, tucks it under one arm, and scoops her up against him with the other, making her squeak and wrap her arms around his neck and lock her thighs around his waist.

When they get to his bunk, he somehow opens, closes, and then locks the door. He carefully places Skye on the floor and tucks her laptop into the closet.

“What?” she asks, eyeing him warily. She remembers her Ward/panther analogy from the night…all this…first started and suddenly it seems just a little too apropos for the situation.

He’s _stalking_ her—freaking _stalking_ her—inside one of these miniscule bunks, and she finds herself backing away until—

_Shit!_

He has her on her back on the bed and why doesn’t he have his T-shirt on any more? Not that she’s really _complaining,_ but he’s looking at her so intensely…

He’s looming, but it’s all _kinds_ of hot, and why is she having trouble swallowing all of a sudden?

He leans down to place these… _kisses_ …all over her neck, and is talking to her at the same time. “I’m not really…hungry…for food…right now.” God, she’s a mess, panting, gasping for breath, and—yep! Time for a fresh pair of panties, except he’s taking her hands and placing them on his chest and he says in that _voice_ of his, “Touch me.” She’s losing it, because she starts running her hands from the nape of his neck to the waist of his jeans, just petting and rubbing and he’s arching his body into her hands, practically _purring_ under her touch and _damn_ , it’s _really_ sexy. And now he’s doing the thing with the kissing again, but he’s unbuttoning her blouse and he flicks the catch on the front of her bra open and the kisses are burning against her skin, and he’s got his mouth fastened around one nipple and then the other, back and forth until she’s ready to scream, but then he’s yanking her jeans and panties down and off and starts teasing her with one hand.

Then he’s bringing her hands down to his belt buckle and she’s fumbling at first because lust is just making her _completely_ stupid and he chuckles into her neck and he’s enjoying every minute of this, the _bast—the prick!_

She finally, finally gets his belt unfastened, so she just keeps going and attacks his fly. “Frigging buttons…” she mutters aloud and he’s laughing while nuzzling her breasts. “Really _not_ helping the situation,” she manages to tell the top of his head when he takes a nipple into his mouth again, rubbing his tongue against it and she digs her fingers into denim-clad hips.

She _finally_ gets the last of the damn buttons undone and—

_Oh—dear—God._

He has both her wrists wrapped in one hand and the other is at her throat and she isn’t falling, she’s _plunging_ down because of the look in his eyes, like she is the only sane thing in his world right now.

And she very well might be.

He kisses her, hot and _fierce_ and demanding that she give him everything he wants _right fucking now_ and she does exactly what he wants, and lets him take whatever he wants from her. She doesn’t try to speak, doesn’t dare move and then he’s shoving down his own jeans and kicking them aside, rolling a condom down over his cock, and she’s expecting him to just thrust home, but he…

…he stops.

She whimpers, not knowing whether this means this is going to be very good for the two of them or large amounts of sheer torture for her.

He eases himself slowly into her, her thighs stretched apart, her wrists pinned to the mattress. She feels like she’s shaking apart, she’s trembling so hard, and she tries to arch her hips up to meet him and hears him whisper harshly, “Don’t.”

She freezes. Her breath hitches, and she can feel tears pooling in her ears and she doesn’t even know why. But their eyes are locked together and she can relax once she hears him whisper, “Good girl.” And he just starts rolling his hips so she can feel every inch of his cock move inside her, and she’s going to die from the achingly slow motions of his cock and the tight pressure against her clit that’s allowing for only the smallest bit of friction.

 When she can’t hold back a whimper, he orders, “Wrap your legs around me,” and she obeys. “Arms around my neck,” he says, and she obeys that command as well.

And then he slams himself into her and all she can do is hold on.

It’s exhilarating and terrifying and amazing all at once. Her face is buried in the darkness between his neck and his shoulder, her eyes are shut tight, and suddenly, all at once, she’s coming, pressing her lips into his shoulder to keep from crying out, a high-pitched keening sounding in the back of her throat instead. He doesn’t stop—she knows somehow that he _can’t_ stop—and she doesn’t want him to stop after her second and third orgasms hit her in quick succession.

She’s right on the edge again when she hears him whisper her name, sounding—frightened? She wraps her arms around his chest so she can press herself up against him and say softly, breathlessly, “I’m here…I’m right here…”

And he grabs her hips, moving at just the right angle so she can feel him throbbing inside her as she gasps and pulses around him, and he lets out a single choked sob before collapsing against her, and she reaches up to brush away the few tears he’s allowed himself.

She reaches back and grabs a couple of tissues so she can carefully ease him out of her and toss the condom into the trash. When she’s done, she curls up against him, wrapping her arms around him, feeling him shudder against her.

“They lied,” he whispers, sounding frightened and lost and so incredibly _alone_. “They didn’t tell me that I was there for a target until…Why wouldn’t they tell me?” She pulls him closer, feeling tears that aren’t her own fall across her breasts. She holds him and rocks him, humming softly, until she feels his body relax against hers.

“Grant?” she whispers into the silence. She closes her eyes in relief when she doesn’t get a response. He’s finally, finally fallen asleep. She lets the tears that trickle over her temples dry on their own, not wanting to risk taking her hands off of him for an instant, not wanting him to think—even in his sleep—that he’s alone.

***

It’s Skye’s phone that wakes them. She slowly turns over, looks at the screen, and chuckles at the text from Jemma:

_**Are you two ever coming up for air? A betting pool has been established on whether you two will emerge from Ward’s bunk tonight, BTW**_

Ward doesn’t even open his eyes. “Simmons?” he guesses.

“Looks like it’s time to get up. Our absence has been noted, which apparently has led to the creation of a betting pool.”

Ward opens one eye. “A betting pool. Seriously?”

She shakes her head and presses a kiss to his temple. “We both need showers and clean clothes. Plus, ‘Spaghetti Night’ will not happen on its own.”

“What if I find _you_ more appetizing than Fitz’s spaghetti?” he mutters, pinning her to the bed with one long arm.

“That should be a given,” she retorts, then bites back a moan when his lips and tongue find her earlobe. “Not _helping_ , Ward!” she whispers sharply. He just chuckles softly and cups a breast in one hand.

“What if… _Goddamnit, Ward!_ What if I told you... _oh God_ …that I want to—to _play_ a little tonight?” she finally manages to gasp out while his mouth is on her neck and his fingers are doing wonderful things between her legs.

His hand stills and his head pops up so he can look down at her. “What did you have in mind?” he asks cautiously. This _is_ Skye, after all.

“The tux. In the back of the closet. It gave me some…ideas,” she mutters, blushing.

His hand settles on her hip, large and warm and holding her firmly in place. “Elaborate,” he says.

“I want to see you. In… _that_. I doubt I’m ever going to get to see you in it, otherwise.” The blush only gets worse and _why_ can’t she just tell him that she wants to see him in the damned tux and have him tie her down, then fuck her silly?

He chuckles into her ear. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered, did you know that?” he tells her, laughing louder when she slaps both hands over her face and groans. He thinks he has an idea of what she wants, but there are a few requests he has of his own.

“All right,” he murmurs. “Tonight. I’ll wear the tux _if_ …”

She peeks out at him from between her fingers. “If?” she echoes suspiciously.

“… _if_ …you’ll wear the pink dress. With certain conditions,” he amends.

Her hands come down from her face. “ _What_ conditions?” she asks, eyes narrowed, her curiosity successfully piqued.

“The corset I bought you that you haven’t worn for me yet.” He moves so he can lean over her while he kisses his way down her neck. “The matching garters with the stockings.” Another kiss. _“No panties.”_ He sucks gently at her clavicle.  “And your hair done in all those loose curls, a touch of makeup, perfume, a bit of jewelry. Oh, and heels.” A gentle kiss to the bite mark he left the other night and she’s shivering against him.

“But…the corset? I’ll need help getting _into_ that thing…okay, _okay_ , the whole enchilada, I _get_ it… _damn_ it… _shit_ …don’t stop… _please_ don’t stop…”

Her head is thrown back and she’s gripping his arm with both hands, her voice pleading and getting higher and softer as he rubs his thumb in circles over her clit. He waits…feels the roll of her hips…sees the rapid beating of her pulse in her throat…the gentle flush spread down her skin from her cheeks to her neck to her chest and down over her breasts…

…and…

_“Goddamnit, Ward!”_ echoes throughout the Bus.

In the lounge, Fitz sighs and yanks out his wallet, passing a serenely smiling Simmons twenty dollars.

“And the remote. Hand it over,” she orders. Fitz grabs it and slaps it into her palm.

“Don’t be such a sore loser,” she murmurs, placing a small kiss on the side of his neck. “It was only twenty dollars and you know I’ll make it up to you later.”

“I owe Coulson and May _as well,_ thank you very much,” he grouses.

Simmons’ laughter just gets louder when Ward, in a T-shirt and sweatpants, wanders towards the shower, whistling.

“Come _on_ , Fitz,” she says, pulling him to his feet and kissing him soundly. “The spaghetti isn’t going to make itself.”

***

“Spaghetti Night” is quickly becoming a tradition because it means not only spaghetti, but two types of sauces, hot and mild Italian sausage, garlic knots, and an obscenely large pan of Ghirardelli Chocolate Supreme brownies. Once in a while, there are even (inexpensive) bottles of red wine. Coulson enjoys it for the opportunity for team bonding, Fitz and Ward for the sheer amount of food, Skye and Simmons for the opportunity to gossip. May even joins them, the food and some scotch relaxing her enough to talk quietly with Coulson.

Near the end of the festivities, coffee, tea, scotch, and brownies have been distributed to the various parties in attendance, and Skye and Simmons begin the washing up, mainly so Skye can ask Simmons for a favor or two—favors that make Simmons raise an eyebrow and chuckle.

Skye splashes Simmons just a bit, looks pointedly over at Fitz and makes a comment that has Simmons blushing, but laughing, saying, “Fine! I’ll help, I’ll help!”

Fitz looks at Ward who just shrugs his shoulders in confusion. One corner of May’s mouth twitches upwards and she raises an eyebrow at Coulson, who just finishes his scotch and chuckles softly as Skye shoots Ward a _look_ that makes him get up and help with the washing up.

“Who’s collaring whom again?” May says softly in Coulson’s direction, making him laugh loudly before excusing himself.

It’s no surprise that the galley is spotless in record time tonight.

***

Ward washes up, and takes the tuxedo out of its garment bag. It’s a fairly standard tuxedo—but with a switch of accessories he can be anyone from semi-formal waitstaff to a major donor at an extremely formal charity gala. He goes through the garment bag and its velvet-lined pockets where he can store cuff links, stick pins, and the like. A picture forms in his head of who he wants Skye to see and he smiles and begins to dress.

***   

He’s likes to think he’s a gentleman, so when Skye texts him to let him know she’s finished “getting all gussied up”, moments later, he quietly knocks on the door to her bunk.

Simmons smiles at him and squeezes his arm as she leaves, heading towards the lounge. “Play nice,” she tosses over her shoulder at them as she walks away, leaving the two of them alone.

He’s desperately wishing he could have brought her flowers—tulips, maybe, or incredibly vibrant gerbera daisies that would exactly match the color of that dress.

She’s all curls and curves with eyes that look larger, softer; glossy lips that he suddenly wants to suck and bite; and bare skin that he can’t wait to explore. There are tiny gold studs in her ears and a thin gold chain to match—nothing that will get in the way.

Simmons was here and Skye’s waist is cinched in tight which means she’s wearing the corset he bought her. His eyes follow the flare of her hips down to her legs and he sees just enough shimmer to know she’s also wearing stockings. And she’s wearing a pair of gold heels he’s never seen before but that are doing interesting things to his nether regions.

He takes a step forward into the bunk and reaches out to gently cup the side of her face with one hand. She closes her eyes and nuzzles, then kisses his palm.

He wordlessly offers her his arm, even though his bunk is literally only steps away. She flushes, but takes it. They swiftly pass from her bunk to his.

He prepared carefully for this—wet washcloths and dry towels at the ready, a six-pack of lime-flavored Perrier he had stashed in his closet, glasses, a full ice bucket, and straws. There’s also a small black bag tucked into a corner of the bunk that he hasn’t had occasion to take out until tonight.

He locks the door behind them and then he allows himself more time to drink her in. She bites her bottom lip and the flush on her cheeks and neck deepens.

He clears his throat. “You look…”

She looks up at him, then lets her eyes rest on him and travel slowly up and down his form.

The tuxedo is fitted and tailored with immaculate precision. Black silk that emphasizes the broadness of his shoulders and the perfect proportions of his waist and hips. There’s a black vest and tie instead of a cummerbund and a blindingly white shirt accented with what look like onyx studs and—oh, my God—actual matching cufflinks. Not to mention the highly polished, almost glossy shoes.

She swallows once. Hard.

“So do you,” she replies.    

They’re close enough that she can smell his cologne. The familiar scent helps ground her, steady her. She can look at him again without feeling all awkward and completely self-conscious.

A small smile plays around the corners of her mouth—he is frickin’ _edible_ in that suit.

He raises an eyebrow. “Find something funny?” he asks, a little defensively.

Her smile grows a little wider. _“No, sir,”_ she exhales, and then, slowly, making sure to undulate her hips just right, walks around him in a tight circle, occasionally brushing him with her fingers, or smoothing her way down an arm with her hand. Then she does what she always does for him when he’s wearing a suit.

She straightens his collar and tie.

She smooths the fall of the jacket over his shoulders.

She adjusts his lapels.

The whole time, she just wants to devour him.

The feeling, apparently, is mutual, because when she looks up at him and rests her hand on his cheek, ready to thank him for _so_ completely indulging her, he cups her face in his hands, angling it perfectly for a toe-curling kiss.

When he backs away— _literally_ backs away from her, panting—he starts apologizing.

“I’m sorry—I’m _so_ sorry, Skye—I just—I need—you look so— _Goddamnit, Skye!”_  

She laughs, the tension broken with Ward’s use of, apparently, his favorite all-purpose phrase when it comes to her.

“So I’m getting the feeling that we’re both as horny as hell thanks to this game of dress-up that we played,” Skye murmurs, slipping her arms around him and leaning against his chest, feeling his arms, warm and solid, surround her. “You’re my Dom. You’re in charge. I’m sure you have at least one or two other games in mind,” she finishes, twining her arms around his neck and nuzzling that one delicious spot under his jaw.

She feels him chuckle and then his hand is sinking into her hair and tugging and he’s kissing her while his other hand rests gently on her neck and her eyes are closing and she can feel herself slowly drop.

The kiss, after some unknowable amount of time, ends and he whispers, “Keep your eyes closed, Skye.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, swaying slightly as he moves away. But he’s back almost instantly, tying something dark and silky over her eyes.

“Can you see?” she hears him ask from behind her. She tries, but she can’t really open her eyes and darkness is all that filters in through the cloth over her eyes. She shakes her head.

“Bend over,” he murmurs into her ear. She has no choice but to trust him as his body, pressed into her back, guides her until she’s holding the edges of the nightstand. Then she feels his hands working their way up from her ankles to her calves, around her inner thighs where she opens her legs wider to show him she’s followed every order.

He smiles and feels her start to shake as he eases a hand between her legs and pleasantly finds that she listened to him and has foregone panties. He presses himself into her back again and, with one hand teasing the folds at her entrance, murmurs into her ear, “Such a good girl. Is all this for me?” A little trite, but apparently trite works because she swallows hard.

“Yes, sir,” he hears her say in this tiny, husky voice.

“Do you want to come already? So soon?” he whispers in her ear, easily sliding two fingers into all that delicious wetness.

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, wanting desperately to move against his hand, but not wanting to earn a smack on the ass so early in the evening. The he starts moving his hand in and out…in and out…achingly, achingly slowly and firmly.

He hears her breath pick up; pressed against her like this, he can feel her lungs expanding and contracting, trying to pull in air. He brings his other hand up and her heart is beating so fast, so hard, that it’s almost like holding a small bird, beating its wings against his fingers. He can’t resist and slides his hand around her neck, gratified by the full-body shudder he can feel run through her.

He gently, carefully brings her neck upwards and can smell…not her regular perfume. She’s wearing something…not bad, just…unexpected. He sniffs her neck while he continues to slowly slide two fingers in and out of her. He finds he’s intrigued by this new perfume, by this scent he can’t quite identify, but that’s causing him to harden against her. He adds another finger, gratified by her gasp and the way she spreads her legs open even farther for him.

“Your perfume…” he says casually. “It’s new?”

“Yes, sir.” All she wants to do is slam backwards onto his fingers, but she doesn’t dare. She knows how he is about scent, but she wanted to do something a little different for tonight. She swallows and tries to stop her thighs from shaking so badly. She feels moisture running down her inner thighs, soaking her stockings. Shit…he knows how to play her like a fucking _fiddle_ by now.

“What is it?” he asks, speeding up the motion of his hand slightly, letting the tip of his nose brush the back of her neck.

She shudders. With the blindfold, she can’t distract herself by looking at anything; she can only hear (barely), smell (him and his cologne), and feel (fingers moving slightly faster, deeper inside of her).

“Skye,” she hears him say.

She swallows. “Yes, sir?”

She can hear the chuckle in his voice. “Are you going to answer my question?” He speeds up the motion of his fingers even more and she whines in the back of her throat. He gives her two or three good, hard thrusts with his hand, then stops, fingers buried inside her. She’s panting and her thighs spasm against him. He takes pity on her and asks patiently, again, “What’s your new perfume, Skye? I like it,” he says in her ear, pressing himself against her hip.

“Th-thank you, sir. Simmons made it…herself…from essential oils…Lavender…Damask Rose…Jasmine… _Oh God, please!”_ He’s been moving his fingers inside her again since she started speaking, faster and harder and now all she can do is hang her head and brace herself against the nightstand, feeling the heat of his cock against her hip and his fingers moving inside her.

“Please, what?” he teases as he licks, sucks, and kisses his way up and down the back of her neck.

“Please let me come,” she whispers, tears starting to stain the blindfold. Her breath hitches. It’s too much; it’s too intense; she’s too close to crying…

He hears her breath hitch; he hears the tears in her voice. “It’s all right, Skye,” he murmurs into her ear. “You’re being so good for me. You can come once. _Just_ once, understood?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir!” And then his hand is pressing her down against the nightstand and his fingers are thrusting inside her at just the right angle and she’s clamping down around him, a hand over her mouth, lips closed tightly together over a scream.

He feels her knees bend and her hips start to give way, so he quickly slips an arm underneath her, supporting her gently around her ribs, just under her breasts. When she’s steady on her feet again, he gently withdraws his hand, making her shiver. He takes one of the damp cloths he prepared and wipes his hands clean and after carefully moving the skirt of her dress out of the way, wipes between her legs and down the insides of her thighs with another. Her scent almost overwhelms him, but he contents himself with kissing the inside of each thigh up high above her stocking. He hears her breath catch again.

He picks her up, sits down on the mattress, and she automatically cuddles close, his arms wrapping tightly around her, her head over his heart.

He knows she’s down pretty far. “Skye,” he says firmly. “Can you hear me?”

A pause, then… “Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to take the blindfold off for a little while.” She whimpers. “I need to make sure you’re okay,” he says, and she nods.

“Yes, sir.”

He slowly, carefully removes the blindfold. Her eyes are still closed. “Can you open your eyes for me?” he asks gently.

Her eyes flutter open and he looks into them. Her pupils are so far blown that her eyes are almost black. Tremors are running through her entire body as she clings to his lapels. He needs to bring her back up a little and he needs to do it slowly and carefully.

“I want you to drink this for me,” he orders. “Slowly,” he amends, and places the bottle of water to her lips. As she drinks, her eyes begin to close.

“Skye, eyes on me,” he orders, and she blinks her eyes against the dim light, but looks at him. He locks eyes with her.

“You’re down quite a bit. If you don’t want to, or can’t come back up, I want you to tell me the truth, and we’ll end the scene and I’ll stay with you while you sleep and come back up naturally. I’ll be here when you wake up and we’ll talk more then.” He’s prepared to do what he has to do, even if it means ending this scene before it’s even begun, but suddenly she’s pushing the water bottle away from her mouth and he sees a flicker of…annoyance…maybe even anger…when her pupils start to shrink and she struggles weakly to get up.

“No,” she states, unequivocally. “Let me _up_ , damn it!”

“I will let you up when you _slowly_ finish drinking this and when you can actually _stand_ ,” he states firmly, though he’s trying not to smile. He’s found that, when she’s under, but needs the challenge of a fight, she gets as stubborn as a three year-old at bedtime.

“Fine!” she snaps, not _exactly_ grabbing the water bottle from him, not wanting to provoke him _quite_ yet. Not when he’s this close, and safe, and warm, and very, _very_ dangerous all at the same time. He chuckles softly, and she exhales sharply through her nose. She drinks slowly and lets herself calm under his hands that are running through her curls and down her back. When she’s finished, she nuzzles his neck.

“All done,” she whispers, licking and sucking at that one spot under his jaw, breathing him in, tasting the salt on that small, smooth patch of skin. She hears him let out a small moan, making her smile against his skin. She’s not that far under anymore—but she is far enough under to get herself into all _kinds_ of wonderful trouble.

He lets his head fall back slightly to give her better access. She shifts herself so she is straddling him, but remembers she’s soaking wet which somehow makes her remember things like stains and dry cleaning issues and…just…

“Crap in a hat,” she mutters to herself, and tries to move off his lap.

Tries. Because his hands clamp down around her hips as soon as she shifts her weight.

“I want _you_ to give _me_ a _very good reason_ as to _why_ I should let you off my lap,” he says in her ear, low and possessive and slightly pissed-off.

She looks at him and tells him the truth. “I’m still…wet. And _you_ called ‘No Panties’ for sexy fun times tonight. So unless you want to have a monumental dry cleaning bill, I can’t— _shit!”_ she squeaks as he takes her hips in his hands and grinds her against him, his cock hot against her, every sensation amplified without even the protection of a thong.

“There,” he growls. “Now _stop thinking_ and get back to work.”

She shoots him a glare she _knows_ she’ll pay for sooner or later tonight. “Get back to _what_ , in particular?” she snaps back, pissed-off as _hell_ at his comment and its implications. _Shit._ Now the somewhat sane part of her can tell that the not-so-sane part of her wants a fight, a struggle, a total clash of wills.

They glare at each other as seconds pass, his hands hot on her hips, her hands gripping his shoulders.

Stalemate.

“Do I need to gag you?” he finally asks, steel-in-velvet.

Oh, she’s way too quick to pick up that gauntlet. “What’s the fun in _that?”_ she answers back, rapid-fire, as bratty as she knows how to be.

And then he’s smiling. Then he’s chuckling. “If you insist,” she hears him say. Then…

_“Goddamnit, Ward—Ow!_ What the _hell—”_

He’s lifting her, then shoving her to her knees, yanking her hands behind her. “Thighs _open_. Back _straight_. Arms _behind you_. Head _down_. If you need this to _remind you of your place_ , then I will _damn well give it to you_ ,” she hears, tight and pissed-off as he arranges her in position on her knees with one hand while holding her wrists tightly behind her with the other.

She tries to yank out of his grasp, knowing it’s completely futile. (And possibly slightly suicidal at this point.) But now, her breath is coming fast, her adrenaline is probably off the charts, and she’s soaking wet—again. He reaches into the small black bag with his free hand. “Well,” he says, conversationally, holding her and letting her struggle as much as she wants, “I haven’t used _these_ for a while, but I take good care of what’s _mine_ , so…” He lets his voice trail off as he somehow shoves her forward and down so he can plant a knee in the middle of her back and lock her wrists into— _wait one fucking minute!_

She turns her head to try and see and Ward obligingly brings her wrists into view. “Like I said,” he breathes into her ear, “I take good care of what’s _mine_.” He’s put lined leather cuffs on each wrist and then locked them together. His words, his tone, the cuffs— _God,_ is she turned-on and pissed-off!

“Go ahead,” he urges her. “Fight all you want.” He rises, and walks over to the dresser. He takes a glass and fills it with ice from the ice bucket. She hears a bottle crack open, a hiss of carbonation, and liquid splashing as she pulls, tugs, and yanks. “Best leather cuffs I could find. Oiled minimally once a month,” he says, his voice and demeanor completely calm. He pauses to drink and she looks up through her curls to see him, not a hair out of place, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. He puts the glass back on the dresser and crouches down in front of her. “They’re lined in lamb’s wool so they won’t mark your skin. So, you can fight them _all_ you want. If…that’s _all_ you want.”

She doesn’t say anything; she just tries to toss her hair out of her face. He gently reaches out a hand and sweeps it back for her. She refuses to look at him; a tear betrays her and runs down her cheek. He carefully rubs it away with his thumb. She slowly eases herself back into what Ward deems the proper position for her. She swallows hard as she arranges herself with thighs spread, her back straight, and her head down.

He’s more than a little amused at her antics. Brat. But _his_ brat. And he _does_ take care of what’s his. “Good girl,” he murmurs, takes a second glass, fills it with ice, Perrier, and a straw. He crouches back down in front of her. “Drink. _Slowly,”_ he orders. She drinks slowly, her breathing slowing. He watches as the pulse at the base of her throat stops going like a hummingbird’s. When she finishes, he puts the glass back on the dresser, only to crouch down in front of her again.

“Why?” he asks softly.

She sniffles. She won’t look up—she _won’t!_

He places a finger under her chin; tilts her head up until she can’t hide behind her hair anymore.

“Skye, look at me,” he says. Not asking, not demanding.

She looks at him.

“If I’m too easy to have…” she starts, her voice hoarse despite the water.

“If I’m too easy to have, why would you want me?” She’s looking at him now, angry tears falling down her face, biting on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Vulnerable.

Hurting.

He sits on the bed and she, without even thinking, moves to rest her forehead against his knee. He runs his fingers through her hair.

“You belong with…someone who matches the way you look in that damned tux. Someone…worldly. Elegant. Someone…not me.” She finishes in a whisper, afraid to look at him.

Afraid he’ll agree with her.

He sighs, starting to understand.

He leans down, slowly unlocking and removing the leather cuffs, replacing them in the black bag.

He stands up. “Skye, come here, please,” he says softly, indicating the spot right in front of him. He watches as she slowly uses the bed to pull herself up, then watches as she takes the two steps that place her in front of him. He does what he did when they talked after Malta and places one hand at the nape of her neck, and the other at the small of her back and pulls her close, but this time, he wraps his arms around her, enfolding her thoroughly, completely.

She grabs the lapels of his jacket and bursts into tears.

He presses his lips to the crown of her head, rocking her the way she rocked him when he came back from Paris and literally dropped to his knees in front of her, hoping and _praying_ she wouldn’t leave when she understood what had happened. “How could I _not_ want you?” he whispers to her, feeling her collapse against him.

He picks her up the way you would a child and she wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, her weeping turning into mostly sniffling and the occasional sob. He sits down on the bed and holds her and rocks her until the storm passes. Then he gently sets her down so she’s straddling his lap with her arms wrapped around his chest, her face pressed against his jacket.

“Hey,” he says softly to her, nudging her chin up with one finger so she’ll look at him and kissing her on the nose. “Help me get out of this damned thing, please?”

She smiles slowly, softly, then grins. “Only if you’ll put on the black silk boxers I found the other day,” she replies.

He swallows. Hard. “I…already have them on,” he admits, looking away and flushing. She chuckles and runs her hands underneath his jacket, easing it off his shoulders. She gently undoes the buttons on the vest, slipping it off his shoulders the same way. He watches as she undresses him with such care, with her absolute, full attention, and as soon as she’s removed his tie, he shoves one hand into her curls and tugs, wraps an arm around her hips to hold her in place, and kisses her while grinding into her.

She’s breathless and…and _giddy,_ for God’s sake! She kisses him, hard and hot, exactly the way he’s kissing her, grinding down into him until they find a rhythm that suits them both. And even though his hand is tangled in her hair, pulling and tugging, she clings to his shirt to keep herself here, with him, fighting the instinct to sink into sub space.

She yanks her head away and mutters, “Focus, Skye, focus,” as her fingers fumble with the onyx studs. “You _had_ to get shirts that need cufflinks, didn’t you?” she gripes at him when she gets to his cuffs and she can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Finally, finally, the shirt is off, the studs and cufflinks are safe on the nightstand and she yanks off his undershirt so she can run her fingers and her mouth all over that warm, delicious, smooth skin.

_Her_ mouth is on _his_ neck, and he’s moaning, somehow, in the back of his throat. She can’t help reaching down and palming him through his pants, now knowing that a very thin layer of silk is enveloping his cock. “Feel good?” she pants into his ear.

“ _God_ , yes…” he pants back, and then she has to press her face into his shoulder because his hands, both of them, are now busy under the skirt of her dress, and his fingers are inside her while his thumb rubs her clit in circles and he’s grinding up into the hand that’s inside her and she’s going to come, and come hard in a second…

She whines in distress and his movements just get faster, firmer, harder. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…” he whispers over and over and over again into her ear and she finally realizes that _thank God, it’s okay,_ and her orgasm rockets through her fast and hard and he’s not stopping, he’s still moving his hips and his hands, and all she can do is grab his shoulders and whisper the filthiest endearments imaginable in his ear.

After her third or maybe...fourth orgasm (she’s kinda lost count), he holds her still and orders, “Belt. Off. Now.”

“Thank you _God_ yes, sir!” she says, working frantically at the buckle and whipping it out of its loops as fast as she can, then going for his fly.

“Condom. Now,” he orders again and he groans softly as she palms the heat and length of his cock through black silk, then grinds against him, her wetness soaking the silk. Then she leans over, snatches a condom from the top nightstand drawer, tears it open, eases him out, rolls the condom over him, yanks her skirt up, and sheathes him inside her up to the hilt.

They’re frozen together for a moment, Skye on Ward’s lap, and she doesn’t dare move, but waits for Ward, who is now as sweaty and messed up as she is, and he whispers, hot in her ear, “I have wanted to _fuck_ you like this since I saw you _in_ this dress.” He pistons his cock up into her as extra emphasis, and she hisses at the angle, the length, the _heat_ of him.

“You are _never_ —”

_*thrust*_

“— _ever_ —”

_*thrust*_

“—getting rid of—”

_*thrust*_

“—this _fucking_ dress, understand?”

“Oh, God, _yes, sir,_ I understand,” she gasps out, holding herself back while giving as good as she’s getting because she wants to see Ward fall apart underneath her. She’s clenching herself around him, swiveling her hips, feeling her hair trail down her back until Ward tangles one hand in her curls so he can bring her back towards him so he can do what he wanted to do in the first place and suck and bite and leave bruising kisses all over her mouth.

And then he’s picking her up, turning around, and he is just that goddamned strong that he can control their fall on to the mattress so he’s still inside her. Then he’s pinning her wrists above her head with a hand still tangled in her hair and she’s dropping again, with each motion, with every thrust, dropping deeper until he arches up enough to get a hand in between them so he can yank up the skirt of the dress and use his thumb to press those circles into her clit. And he’s looking down at her, her head whipping back and forth while she’s sinking her fingers into his arms and she’s begging for him to let her come.

“Now, Skye, now… _oh God!”_ he manages to get out before he loses all control and grabs her hips and slams himself into her over and over, waiting until she collapses underneath him to explode like a fucking rocket inside her.

Things go fuzzy for a minute and when he comes back to himself, he’s resting his head against her breasts, hearing her heart beat loud and fast. She’s petting him and petting him and petting him, running her hands over his shoulders and back, smoothing soothing patterns into his skin. All he wants to do is lie here, cradled by her hips and hands.

He kisses her and eases himself off of her, getting rid of the condom, then grabbing another washcloth to clean them both. When he turns back around, Skye’s pulled off the dress and is folding it, placing it in a corner of the bunk. She looks at him apologetically. “I would have left it on, but it’s a little…damp, in places.” She chuckles, “Well, so am I—” then inhales sharply as Ward places a hand on her back to keep her bent over and softly strokes her between her legs with the washcloth.

He lets himself look at her while her eyes are closed. Her curls are tangled; her makeup is only a little smudged. But she has on the gold satin corset, complete with matching gold garters and stockings. He notices that she hasn’t removed the heels.

God, he hasn’t had this much phenomenal sex in…nope…ever. Not like this. Not like he’s only coming up for air and diving back in.

She slowly opens her eyes and looks at him, smiling a little. “Train of thought left you at the station?” she asks softly, with a chuckle beneath it, and he realizes that he’s just standing there, naked, the washcloth no longer moving between her legs. He flushes and laughs, but she just gets up and takes the damp cloth from him.

“Let me?” she asks, and he nods, watching in fascination as she sits on the edge of the bed and pulls him towards her by the hips. She carefully cleans him, cock and balls, with the washcloth. He shivers and he’s not quite sure whether it’s from the coolness of the cloth or…He watches as he hardens in her hand. She tosses the damp cloth in a corner, looks up at him, and takes him in her mouth.

She isn’t moving back and forth, but her tongue is bathing his cock from root to tip and for now, he sinks his hands into her hair and simply enjoys the sensations, encouraging her at first simply with soft sighs and moans and then with the motion of his hips and way too soon he has to pull himself away again to catch his breath.

“Take off the heels,” he orders, his voice husky. She quickly obeys, but looks at him questioningly. He pulls her up off of the bed and lays himself down comfortably on his back.

“Thighs here, facing me,” he orders again, indicating the space on either side of his head. Oddly, it makes her blush furiously, but she obeys, straddling his head.

She can’t help the blush—this position has always made her more than a little self-conscious. Then she feels his hands, large and warm and capable of _defusing a fucking bomb_ gently, oh so gently start to stroke every bit of skin between her legs. She carefully braces herself against the wall and sighs as he has her spread her thighs a bit farther apart so he can hold her open for his lips and tongue.

Soon she’s panting and her thighs are trembling again. He moves his hands to her hips, holding her steady as he says, “Hold yourself open for me, Skye.” God, she has _never_ been this turned-on in this position before. Her hands come down to part herself for him, and he’s licking her, suckling her, and kissing her, making her melt—making her absolutely boneless.

Then she’s whining in the back of her throat, her mouth slammed tightly shut over the moans that want to escape. “Talk to me, Skye,” he says softly. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want—oh _God_ —I want you to keep going— _please_ don’t stop—but I want—I want to come while I’m riding you,” she manages to gasp out.

After bathing her clit with his tongue for a few moments, he tells her, “Get a condom.”

And after all his ferocity, all his need, and all his possessiveness, he waits until she is dripping wet and shaking before rolling the condom down his cock and easing into her with a slowness and gentleness that makes tears come to her eyes. He’s running his hands over her like she is something precious and rare and all she can do is roll her hips, bite her bottom lip, and chase her orgasm.

When her frustration comes out as a whimper, she feels him press her fingers against herself. “Show me,” he whispers. “Show me what you need.”

She closes her eyes, swallows, and skims her fingertips over and over her clit with a feather-light touch. “That’s it…good girl,” he reassures her, making her fingers press firmer and move faster.

“Faster,” she pleads, and he speeds up the motion of his hips. “Harder,” she finds herself demanding, and she can feel him almost bumping her cervix with every thrust. When the rhythm of his hips and her hands are exactly right, she tells him and she opens her eyes to find him watching her with such intensity that she leans back into his hands and finds herself begging, “Now— _please,_ now!”

He nods and she easily tips over the edge, coming a second time as she feels him shuddering under and inside of her.

After resting on his chest to catch her breath, she’s the one to get up and clean them both up. There’s enough ice left for two fresh glasses of Perrier, which she brings over to the bed. He’s not smiling with his lips, but she can see it in his eyes.

They both drain their glasses in silence and then Skye asks shyly, “Hey, help me get out of this damned thing, please?” He chuckles and helps loosen the laces on the back of the corset while she undoes the front as well as unclips the garters, letting the whole confection fall down around her feet. She rolls down the stockings and places everything on top of the pink dress—the dress she’s never going to be able to wear again without blushing.

She moves to straighten up his pile of rumpled clothing when he says, “Don’t worry about it.” She turns her head and sees him under the covers, holding them up, waiting for her to get back in bed next to him. She curls up on her side, facing him, pleasantly tired and aching in all the right places.

He smiles and traces his fingertips over her cheek. He can tell she’s fighting both the drop and sleep. He reaches out and pulls her close so she can rest her head against his chest. “Sleep, Skye,” he whispers into her hair. In a moment or two he hears her breathing even out. Only then does he close his eyes, his arms wrapped around her and her head tucked under his chin; his thigh over her hip.

Not even their own demons chase them through the darkness.


End file.
